


arrows drawn through

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Pining, Post-Break Up, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: It’s been two years (twenty one months and four days, but Emma isn’t counting, she swears) since she’s seen Killian Jones, pictures on social media notwithstanding. And the moment she realises it’s him, leaning against the door of David’s trusty pickup truck and listening to her brother with rapt attention, her stomach flips.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livingisharder (katana_fleet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katana_fleet/gifts).



> Drea asked me to write a fic based off of the WWH short film, and I'm not sure where I took it but here it is, littered with references to the music + film, so I suppose the songs should be listened to for a better experience. (or to distract you from this mess, your choice.) also, I know nothing about camping. but anyway, I did have fun writing it, so I hope you have fun reading it.

It takes her a second to see him.

Actually, it’s more like she does see him but her brain has a little bit of difficulty catching up with her eyes, turning his lean form and dark hair into something other than a discernible blob. Into the man she used to know better than herself.

It’s been two years (twenty one months and four days, but Emma isn’t counting, she swears) since she’s seen Killian Jones, pictures on social media notwithstanding. And the moment she realises it’s him, leaning against the door of David’s trusty pickup truck and listening to her brother with rapt attention, her stomach flips. Out of annoyance, or longing, she isn’t quite sure.

She doesn’t drop her duffel bag, but it’s a near thing. Immediately turning to Mary Margaret and shouting at her is a near thing, too. She does glare, though, and her friend’s refusal to meet her eyes is answer enough.

Because of course they’d invite Killian on this camping trip. Of course they’d neglect to tell her about it.

It makes her feel a little better when his eyes widen at the sight of her, knowing he’s been thrown off by this, too. She dumps her bag into the backseat of her Bug with a little more force than necessary if Mary Margaret’s wince is anything to go by.

“Emma,” her friend starts, a gentle lull in her voice like she’s soothing a child throwing a tantrum, “I wanted to tell you, but you know you would’ve cancelled.”

“I really don’t want to hear it, Mary Margaret.” She’s not throwing a tantrum, really. “But you know what, a little heads up would’ve been nice.” No, she’s just rightly pissed.

Mary Margaret positions the supplies in the backseat carefully, takes her time, Emma thinks, in order to prolong dealing with this conversation. Emma crosses her arms and digs her feet a little into the gravel of the driveway of her mother’s house.

She’ll deal with Ruth admonishing her about her shoes destroying the front of the house later.

“I know, and I’m sorry, I really am,” Mary Margaret sighs, fidgeting a little with the zipper of the hoodie she has on. “You two are really important to us and we just wanted you both to be here. I know it isn’t ideal -,” Emma scoffs, “- but for our sake, could you at least _try_ not to murder him and leave his body in the woods?”

Mary Margaret’s smile is hopeful and Emma refrains from groaning. “I’m making no promises.”

Mary Margaret sighs, “That’s good enough for me.”

She leaves Emma alone after that, to adjust her seat for the twenty minute long drive and wallow in the past that she’d much rather not dredge up this early in the afternoon. At least they’re in separate cars and she won’t be forced to share any breathing room with him. There was a time when she would dread pulling her lips back from his in order to gulp in air, a time when there was no such thing as space in between them. But all that doesn’t matter anymore.

(The truth, though, is that it matters far more than she’d even admit to herself. It matters enough that it still wakes her up some nights, her hands fisting the sheets beside her only to find them cold and empty.)

When she stands up to her full height, she gives in to the urge and spares a glance his way. Two years is a long time but other than his hair having grown out a little, wisps of it threatening to fall in his eyes, nothing much has changed. Including the way he’s looking at her, that fierce kind of intensity in his eyes that makes her want to back up and fall into a ditch somewhere. Emma’s never been good with feelings.

She tears her eyes away from his and takes a deep breath.

This trip is for David and Mary Margaret, one they’ve been planning for months in an attempt to “get the gang back together just like old times” before their wedding next weekend. In hindsight, she should’ve guessed he’d be here, but they only gave her a week’s notice, springing the plan on her when she'd reached Storybrooke from the city.

Emma supposes now that it makes sense they'd give her minimal time to prepare so she wouldn't ask too many questions. Some cop she is.

(She blames the fact that she’s on vacation for that one. Not that it helps her current situation much.)

She can see the hint of apology in David’s eyes when he walks over to go over the route with her one more time. She assures him that she still remembers it, couldn’t have forgotten it and all the summers they spent here even if she tried. (The fact that she did try, after spending her first time in this town without Killian and feeling an aching loneliness in her chest, is another thing altogether.)

With another reassuring nod towards her brother, she gets into her Bug. She would like to say her eyes aren't drawn back to Killian as he drags his bag out of his car and positions it in the pickup’s cargo bed, all before pulling his leather jacket tighter around himself and climbing into the backseat. She would _really_ like to say that, but she’ll be lying if she did.

-/-

The first time Emma Swan kissed Killian Jones was at the worst party she’d ever been to.

Junior year at college was a mess of frat houses and sorority girls, and somehow she’d been dragged to one of those cliche, too-loud parties by Ruby who had made it her mission in life to get Emma out of their apartment and into a night of fun.

Emma had, in turn, dragged Killian with her. Quite literally, by the crook of his elbow, his constant pout and rubbing of the non-existent bruise acting as a reminder to her for the whole evening. She was used to it though, she shot down every remark he made barely a second after he’d made it; her best friend was predictable like that. Or maybe it was just that ever since they’d met in the second month of college, they’d been on the same page without even having to try.

Those were the thoughts she’d had rattling in her brain for a few weeks, and a single conversation with Ruby coupled with one shot too many meant she was willing to do drunk what she was too afraid to do sober; kiss her best friend senseless.

There was nothing romantic about it, really. She’d stormed up to him as he leaned against a table in the corner of the room, grabbed him by the lapels of that stupid leather jacket he always wore, and crashed her lips into his. To this day, she doesn’t quite remember what happened after the kiss ended, after she pulled back to lean her forehead against his. She only remembers waking up in her bed the next morning, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the open door.

It only hit her when he all too quickly piled her breakfast onto her plate and pushed it her way, mumbling an excuse before leaving her apartment without his usual hug and peck on her cheek. She’d basically attacked him and so he was avoiding her.

And of course being the adult she was, she avoided him right back.

It took her over two weeks to end up at his doorstep in the middle of the night, and to tell him that she liked him. “A lot,” she’d added.

That was the first time Killian Jones kissed Emma Swan, pulling her into his space by her waist, murmuring, “About bloody time,” against her lips afterwards.

-/-

No matter how high she turns up the volume of her car stereo, the thoughts don't seem to drown out. And so, the drive feels like it lasts an eternity. Her memories are one thing, but the physical evidence of David’s truck in front of her has her biting her lower lip until she's sure it's going to bleed.

Dating your best friend is a wonderful, perfect, thing. But breaking up with your best friend...not so much. Emma had spent a week in solitude after getting her own place, partly to get her own thoughts together, but mainly because it minimalised the chances of running into him. Spending so much time with each other meant that his places were her places; and so, both were seemingly out of the question.

The city is big enough for thousands, and yet in that stretch of time, Emma had known it was inevitable that it would only push the two of them closer together as if they were its only inhabitants. Kismet’s a bitch that way.

So, Emma found a route to the station that didn't involve walking by their favourite coffee place and was in half a mind to add _Professional Hermit_ to the skills on her résumé.

It took time, and energy, and nights she will never get back. It was her decision to end it, which meant that she couldn't be the one sitting with a carton of Rocky Road and a John Cusack marathon like a Goddamn cliché. And she most definitely couldn’t be the one nearly crashing into a tree at the thought of spending a whole night around him.

Emma Swan is not the most rational person in the world.

She manages to get to the end of the dirt road in one piece, pulling over to the side and taking a few measured breaths before she makes it out of the car. They have a ten minute hike to their preferred spot, and judging by the lack of any other vehicles, they’re the first ones here. She keeps her hands busy and her eyes from wandering, piling on as many bags in her arms as she can physically carry. It makes her feel in control, and it soothes her nerves a little.

When she turns around, she’s met with David standing on the cargo bed, tossing down bags to Killian, while Mary Margaret slings a bag over her shoulder and wraps another around her arm. It used to be her instead of David, her good throwing arm put to use while Killian beamed at her with every bag he caught. She feels the ghost of his hands on her hips from when he’d haul her up and off the truck - feels his fingers lingering and his breath fanning her lips.

She grips the backpack strap hard enough that it turns her knuckles white, and calls upon the theatre class she took in college to get her through the rest of the trip without anyone figuring out the storm of emotions she's feeling.

-/-

“Would it help if I said I was sorry, and that I wanted to tell you from the beginning?”

“I’m not mad at you.” Her boots trudge against the hard ground, a grunt following her words. “And did you really just sell out your fiancé?”

David chuckles at her teasing, but otherwise ignores the jab. “You know we had to invite him, we promised not to do the whole taking sides thing. Gets ugly.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, “I know. But a heads up would have been nice.”

“I know, I'm sorry.” Emma nods in acknowledgement. Her brother stays quiet for a while, glancing her way, and then, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, even though she doesn't believe it one bit.

-/-

They'd moved in together a few months after graduation.

They'd both found jobs in the city, and after weeks of waking up in his bed more than her own, he brought up the idea of her just staying there for good.

They'd been sprawled across the couch, his fingers unconsciously tangling in her hair, and he'd practically whispered the suggestion. He'd been wary of her refusal, she knew, but it made sense. And above all, it sounded _nice._

So, he helped load her Bug and carry the boxes to his floor.

Choosing his apartment was a no brainer; it had large windows, an open kitchen, and it was just about halfway from both their workplaces for an easy commute. Emma had thought, at the time, that she'd feel sadder giving up her place, but when she handed her keys to the super, it felt exhilarating above all else. Sure, she'd worked hard and long for a place she could afford by herself, a major accomplishment for a girl who hadn't had something of her own for years.

But the first night at _their_ apartment, after she'd brushed her teeth and slid under the covers, she realised why she didn't feel remorse over losing a one bedroom with polished hardwood floors.

It was because she had Killian. Her best friend, who was unconditionally by her side with his unwavering faith in her and morning kisses that substituted her alarm. Killian, who let her take the lead, who knew her past and admired her more for it.

Killian, who was more of a home to her than any apartment she was leasing.

She thinks that’s when she knew she loved him, even if it took her a few more months to actually say it out loud to him. 

-/-

Although she wouldn't admit it to anyone, she'd lost a significant amount of interest in camping after the break up.

There was some sort of serenity she associated with the forest in the nighttime; the sounds of nature that wrapped around her while she burrowed deeper into the sleeping bag, Ruby telling her, Mary Margaret and Tink stories about some adventure or the other she’d had in a hushed voice, littered with giggles.

Then, her perception of it fitted to include Killian in the mix; his jacket loosely draped over her shoulders as he and David sang loud duets around the fire, Killian stealing the last marshmallow off the stick and making a show of chewing it slowly to annoy her, Killian coaxing her into a midnight stroll along the trail just so he could kiss her under the stars without any interruptions. He was perpetually by her side - whether it was teasing her as a friend, or carving their initials on the side of a tree as her far too cheesy boyfriend.

Emma all but dumps the bags on the ground, ignoring any and all looks of concern that David may be giving her. She can feel his eyes on her - can feel all their eyes on her, in fact, and it makes it all that much worse because the last thing she wants is to turn around and be stuck in Killian’s piercing gaze again.

She ended it, she tells herself, she isn’t supposed to be feeling this way.

By the time Ruby, Graham and Tink get to the campsite, they’ve already set up the tents for the night. Emma had offered to do the majority of the work in an attempt to focus on something that wasn’t her ex-boyfriend humming show tunes under his breath.

Ruby greets her with a hug and Graham joins in, and after a good 0.5 seconds, she feels Tink’s arms around her, too, her yelled out, “Group hug!” a formidable warning before she’d knocked into Emma’s back.

Out of the three of them, she’s known Graham the longest - his awkward high school freshman days something she will never let him forget, especially now that he’s Sheriff. She met Tink two years later when they were partnered up for a History project, which both of them put off for too long, resulting in a frantic all nighter which created a strange bond between them. Ruby was her roommate in college, and like Killian, a stray she picked up to bring home for the summer, albeit a year prior to bringing Killian.

She never actually told any of her friends about the break up besides Mary Margaret, and by extension, David. And that’s only because it was their apartment she’d ended up at after it all blew over. If it was up to Emma, she’d probably have kept it to herself for as long as she could, just to avoid the conversations that followed.

“It was inevitable,” she’d told Mary Margaret over her hot chocolate the first night. “Best friends aren’t supposed to get together, it fucks up everything.”

Mary Margaret had shook her head, said, “I think you’re wrong,” but left it at that. The speech about hope came a week later when Emma didn’t budge about her decision. The other speech about her walls was dropped on her right after Killian dropped a box of her stuff at the door.

She'd moved out after that, found a smaller place than her first one and tried to grow accustomed to only hearing her own footfalls in the quiet space.

Despite the obvious rift between her and Killian, the friend circle managed to hold its own.

And even though she doesn’t see Graham and Tink as much, with one in Storybrooke and the other in Seattle, it feels like no time has passed when Graham slings an arm over her shoulders and makes a bad pun about trees and root beer and Tink punches him so hard in the shoulder that it actually knocks him off balance for a second.

Emma sends a silent prayer to the heavens for the distraction. Ruby’s rapid fire questioning, she knows, will come later, but for now, she can pretend that she’s doing okay.

-/-

Killian doesn’t look at her once.

He pulls at his collar constantly, and makes jokes with Graham and Ruby, and helps Mary Margaret carry the firewood, and slaps David on the back enough times that her brother actually chases him down to get in the same amount of hits just to be even. She thinks he might have even been competing with Tink to see which one of them brought the better food for the trip. He does all this, but he doesn’t look at her once.

Sometime between their arrival and now, he decided to divert his attention away from her.

She hates that she notices.

The cold wind whips around her as the evening nears, and Emma presses her knees closer to together where she sits on the log. She hasn't camped in late Spring in a while, and it seems the weather is choosing to attack right at the moment when she's coming up short of defenses. Go figure, right?

“You’re going to burn a hole through his skull,” Ruby mumbles, dropping down beside her and shuffling closer until her jean clad thigh is pressed up against Emma’s.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma says, and toys with the wrapper of the granola bar that she can’t bring herself to eat.

“It’s been, what, two years?”

 _Twenty one months, and four days_ , Emma repeats in her head. “Yeah,” she says instead.

“And you’re reconsidering now?”

She turns to look at Ruby. “I’m not.” It’s a half lie. She reconsidered the minute she walked out of his apartment with her bag dragging behind her, and she reconsidered when he came by to Mary Margaret’s the next day, pleading through the front door for her to give it another chance. She could name instance after instance and it would create a mountain of sadness and regret that would leave her looking pathetic and feeling shriveled out.

Ruby hums, a sound that tells Emma she doesn’t believe her.

“It’s still creepy,” Ruby muses, “you looking at him like that. I don’t think _he’s_ noticed, but some of the rest of us might have.”

He hasn’t noticed because he hasn’t been looking at her. She sounds like she’s pining, which she most definitely _is not_. She switches gears in order to maintain her sanity. “They didn’t tell me he was coming, I feel a little blindsided, that’s all. Did you know he was coming?”

“Um,” is all Ruby says. Which leaves Emma feeling a little colder, if possible.

“Right, of course.”

“Hey, don’t get prickly on me right now, Emma Swan.”

“I am not,” she huffs. No matter how she looks at it, that was definitely on the prickly side.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“About what?”

“I don't know, whatever’s up here,” Ruby says, tapping on the side of Emma’s head with her index finger.

“No.”

Ruby drags a boot through the dirt, leaving a trail behind it. Emma fixates on her movements rather than fixating on the thing her brain won't let go of. “Do _you_ want to talk to him?”

Easy answer: yes.

Realistic answer: she fucked up a long time ago, and even if she tried now, she couldn't salvage it to look like even a semblance of what it used to.

Mary Margaret laughs to her side and the tinkling sound makes her lips tug up in a short smile despite everything.

“It doesn't matter,” Emma says.

Ruby looks like she's about to protest but Emma doesn't want to listen, she doesn't want to be sitting in the corner moping around when this is supposed to be some sort of last hurrah.

She gets up and brushes the back of her jeans. It's getting very close to sunset and it would be wise to get the fire going now. She tells Ruby as much and then offers her a hand to pull her up and off the log.

“Fine, have it your way,” Ruby concedes.

-/-

It was good. Great, actually. Spectacular, even.

Emma didn’t think she’d ever loved anyone like she loved Killian.

So, when the gnawing insecurity and childhood-induced fears crawled into her mind, it shook her to her core. It was like a switch being flipped; one moment she was reaching for Killian’s hand outside of the restaurant they’d just had dinner at, and the next she was shoving her hands into her jacket pockets, thoughts too far away to hear a word he was saying.

He’d made a throwaway comment at dinner, completely unintended, she knew. They’d carved out time for themselves in their suddenly too-busy-to-even-see-each-other schedules, and gone out to a fancy Italian restaurant. Killian had tucked a curl behind her ear and told her that he could spend the rest of his nights exactly like this.

It didn’t hit her then, didn’t even _actually_ hit her on the sidewalk despite her curling into herself. It was the morning after, her eyes boring into the cup of coffee like it would provide her the answers of the universe. Or more importantly, like it could tell her why she gave herself up completely, why she invested all her trust into someone else when she knew first-hand how badly that could end.

Emma felt torn for weeks. There was Killian, who she reminded herself was _Killian_ , her best friend over everything. And then there were those fucking abandonment issues that latched onto her and refused to let go.

So, she distanced herself until she was picking fights. And Killian kept his cool until he couldn’t, coaxed her out of her stupors until she refused to let him anymore. And Emma blamed herself entirely, for not being able to think about a future with Killian without full out panicking like an idiot.

And an idiot she was, she knew that.

She knew it especially when she sat at the foot of her bed in her new apartment, her phone pressed hard to her ear as she listened to his voice telling her to leave a message after the beep. Her shoulders shook with sobs, fingers rushing to end the call before she did do as he asked and he woke up to her rambling, slightly drunk, apologies.

What would that message be anyway? “Sorry I fucked this up, you can blame foster care for that one, buddy.” Emma wouldn't have known what to say. Still doesn't, quite frankly.

She may have learnt the best way to interrogate an arms dealer, but there really was no protocol for dealing with the aftermath fucking up someone’s life. Especially if that someone is a man you're (if she's being glaringly honest) still in love with.

-/-

She does her best to participate when David proposes a singalong, or when Graham scoots over to her side of the log and asks her to help him out with making s’mores. She's there, hands working and ears being filled with loud voices and guitar strings; but she's also somewhere else. Emma doesn't think she could explain it if she tried, only that her throat feels closed up and even the ridiculously sugary treat on a stick in front of her isn't reviving her appetite.

Graham picks a cracker out of the stack she's created in her hands, and presses it on top of the marshmallow, completing the sandwich.

“So, you ready to move back and work for me yet?” It’s a question Graham teasingly asks her every now and then, one which she usually answers by reminding him that he doesn’t need a Deputy to help him drag Leroy’s drunk ass home once every two weeks.

This time, though, she hesitates in her teasing, lets the thought of her moving back to her small town settle in her mind for a second. The city hasn’t felt very welcoming lately - it’s just _great_ how a broken relationship can break your perception of everything else around it. Graham must notice her pause because he bumps his shoulder with hers and gives her a small smile.

“You’re not really considering that, are you?” He lowers his voice when he says it, and cocks his head to the side, eyebrows scrunching closer together. His accent, like Killian’s, gets heavier when he’s worried.

She shakes her head, despite her thought process. “I’d only show you up and then take your job,” she says good naturedly, but maybe a few minutes too late because Graham’s responding smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s always been the protective kind.

“She’s right, you know, she’s always been better than you,” Tink calls out, seeming to have overheard their conversation. “You’d be unemployed in days, Humbert.”

“True that,” Ruby chimes in.

“Well, thanks for restoring my confidence in myself, guys,” Graham huffs. “Truth is, Emma wouldn't be able to handle Storybrooke crime.”

“I seem to remember Emma did just fine when she was shadowing Lancelot that one summer,” Mary Margaret counters, grinning over her rum-spiked hot cocoa.

“Not you too,” Graham grumbles, and David laughs.

They all start bantering back and forth, and Emma finds herself smiling at their antics, especially once Graham’s reduced to pouting instead of even attempting to think of rebuttals. Killian’s the only quiet one, which is unlike him; he’s got one hand slung over his guitar and the other adjusting the black beanie he’d slipped on a while ago.

She watches the firelight dance across his face, and shoves a cracker into her mouth to stop from calling out to him. Her self restraint is really taking a toll on her today.

He looks up and catches her eyes for the briefest moment before he drops his gaze to the fire.

She focuses on chewing slowly and tuning back into the conversations around her.

It’s a difficult endeavour, to say the least.

-/-

The last time she’d spoken to Killian had been an accident.

She'd called David’s landline because his phone was off, and she knew that Mary Margaret was visiting her half-sister in Brooklyn so there would be no use in calling her to patch David through.

It wasn't even a grave situation. She only needed to reconfirm if their lunch was still on next week. But she felt lonelier than usual, and she'd wanted to hear her brother’s voice, hoping it'd bring her some comfort.

But it was Killian who picked up the phone, whose voice rang through her ears like a piercing echo of the past.

“Hello?” He'd repeated distractedly when she’d stayed silent.

“Hi.” It was meek and small and trying so hard not to sound as sad as she felt.

The line went silent and Emma held her breath, figuring he’d either hang up or hand the phone to David without another word. But he surprised her, as he so often did. “Swan?”

“Yeah, hi,” she repeated. Like an idiot. _Great._

“How-- how are you?”

“I'm fine.” It wasn't too much of a lie. Only one that didn't reveal how much she'd regretted leaving when she did over a year ago. “You?”

She heard him sigh. “Quite the same.”

The line stayed quiet for the next few moments and Emma had pressed her phone closer to her ear, listening to his breathing. She wondered then what it would be like if she told him that she wanted to give it another go. He'd definitely hang up on her, then.

At least when it was silent, she wasn't trying so hard to pretend it didn't affect her as badly as it did.

And then he'd broken the moment. “I suppose you want to talk to Dave. I'll just hand it over to him.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I-- It was nice to hear from you, Swan. Take care.”

“Bye, Killian,” she'd heard herself whisper, despite not wanting to stop talking to him. If what they were doing could be considered as talking, anyway.

She’d made her choice, she had to deal with it.

(She'd spent the rest of that night fighting the urge to call him. To, for just a few minutes, ask him to imagine they were in one of those alternate realities he loved reading about. One where she never did what she did, and he would pick up the phone and tell her about his day like he used to.)

(She fell asleep with her phone clutched to her chest, and the feeling of loneliness more prominent than ever.)

-/-

Emma figures if she can make it through the night, she can make it through the rest of the week. After the wedding, she gets to back to the city and catch bad guys, instead of forcing herself to look away from Killian and deny catching feelings.

But the night is as stubborn as they come, and Emma spends a good hour tossing around in her tent before she relents, laying on her back and simply staring at the top of her makeshift ceiling. She focuses on her breathing, deepening them out like how Ruby taught her after learning it herself from her morning yoga classes.

She doesn’t know how long she lays there, and she refuses to check the time on her phone because she knows it would contribute nothing but more frustration to this situation.

After a long, heavy breath and a squeeze of her eyes, she decides enough is enough. She slips her boots over her flannel pajama pants and pulls her jacket tighter around herself, pocketing her phone and penknife before moving as silently as possible until she’s surrounded only by trees.

Emma knows these woods like the back of her hand, and finding her path through them in the dark is a simple play of muscle memory. Still, she keeps her phone flashlight on so as not to trip over roots or be unknowingly mauled by a bear, or something. The fresh air will do her good, she thinks, and maybe if she tires herself out enough, it’ll make sleep come quicker.

She’s on autopilot, her legs taking turns while her mind stays a jumbled mess. Before she knows it, she's standing in between a cluster of trees she recognizes in an instant.

It was Killian’s idea to scratch out their initials into tree bark. She remembers it perfectly, both of them laughing into the fading light, calling it silly and clichéd. The heart and arrow around the messy _ES + KJ_ was her idea, something to carry it over the top, and give it that perfect teenage romance feel. Something about that night had made them feel invincible. Emma bites her bottom lip hard and traces the rough lines of the carving with her fingers, the sounds of the forest surrounding her.

It’s a testament to her academy training and the nights spent in group homes that she hears the crunch of leaves over her too-loud thoughts, turning around with lightning speed, a hand immediately going to the knife in her jacket pocket. When her eyes catch on, she realises she’s got her flashlight pointing straight at a rumpled looking Killian, a hand over his eyes to block out the strong light.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She’s only barely aware of the slight tremor in her voice as she lowers the light to the ground.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Killian squints at her and then shakes his head. “I’ve been roaming around for an hour or two.”

She should’ve known they’d end up at the same spot. That thing she said about the universe pushing them together wasn’t all in her head. Mary Margaret would call it destiny, and Emma doesn’t believe in all that crap but there’s a part of her that’s inclined to agree.

Emma doesn’t quite know what to say. She wants to apologize, to ask him if he’d be willing to give it another chance. She wants to tell him to leave and not talk to her again, because that would be easier. It would mean she could forget that she’d fucked up a good thing.

Slowly, Killian walks towards her, until they’re a few feet apart. He keeps his eyes on the tree the whole time.

“I didn’t know you’d be on this trip,” she blurts out. This is the first conversation they’ve had in a long time, and she wants to keep it going.

“Would you like me to leave?” She can't tell if he's being sincere or if he's joking.

“No. That's not what I meant.”

He sighs. “It was a last minute decision. Dave, however, rather politely informed me that if I missed any celebratory event surrounding the wedding, he’d personally feed me to the wolves.”

“Brutal,” she says, trying her best not to smirk at David’s overdramatic threats.

Killian hums in agreement.

“He didn't tell me he invited you,” she adds.

“He withheld the same information on my side, as well. Though, I'm not sure I blame him for it.”

“You wouldn't have come if you knew I was here.” It's not a question, it's the truth.

She's still watching him, which is why she doesn't notice the slow fade of darkness, and the crawl of dusk. She switches her phone’s flashlight off and shoves it in her pocket. She's fidgeting while she waits for his answer, she knows.

“Would you blame me? I find it simpler for my sanity to not appear where I'm not wanted.” He pulls at the hem of his leather jacket, the one he's slipped over his plain white shirt and pajamas like a fashion statement. “But Dave was insistent and thus,” he ends it there, shrugging.

The silence falls heavily around them, and weighs on Emma’s shoulders until she’s sure it’s actually making her body sag. Or maybe she’s finally tired out. Of the day, or of running, she isn’t certain. Both, she thinks, would make sense.

It’s Killian finally meeting her eyes that does it, tears away the last shred of twisted pride and solid armour she’d been clinging on to ever since she walked out on him.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for Dave’s--”

“No,” she shakes her head, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry for me, for everything I put you through, it wasn’t-- it wasn’t fair.”

Killian stares at her and she wonders if maybe she didn’t actually say any of that out loud. He looks away, brows scrunching together. It takes a him a few moments, and then, nodding at the carving, he says, “It feels like yesterday when we did this.”

Emma nods even though he isn’t looking at her.

“It was a right childish thing to do, but it made me feel good. We’d only been dating a few months but I knew that you were it for me, Swan. The notion was ridiculous but I thought that if somehow I could mark it into something permanent, that it’d work the same way for us.”

It’s such a Killian thing to say, so caught halfway between poetry and honesty, that it has her heartbeat picking up. God, she’s missed him so much.

“I know why you ran, Emma. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Doesn’t still hurt. I thought I’d be the one person you would run to, rather than from. And I waited but you never came back.”

She watches him clench his jaw and swallow, and a pang of pain hits her. He hates her, she’s certain. Who wouldn’t? She thought she could get out if it all without the pain, that’s why she ended it. But it backfired so royally that she wonders if she’ll ever move on fully.

“I wanted to,” she whispers, “but I couldn’t take that chance. What if it didn’t work out?”

He’s in her space in a second, face mere inches away from hers. “And what good did it do, Swan? I still lost my best friend and my love, no matter whose choice it was, yours or time’s.” She sees sadness in his eyes, the kind she wants to wipe away by running her thumb round the dark circles under them.

“I panicked,” she says, but even she knows it's a weak defence.

“I know,” his voice softens as he says it, like he’s getting tired, “and I wanted to give you time, wanted to hope that you would see that what we had was unbeatable. But, I fear I gave you too much space, and you never saw it the way I did.”

“I did. Of course, I did.” She stares him down, willing him to understand. He was good at that, reading her mind, knowing her heart.

“Emma.” He exhales shakily, and shuffles closer. “Even now, if you were to ask me, I’d be yours.” His voice drops down to a whisper when he adds, “I’ve always been yours.”

Despite the dimness of early morning, Emma can clearly make out the twitch of his lips after he says it, the spots of his scruff where the colour changes to a lighter shade, the brutal honesty in his eyes. He still loves her. And she, him.

She’s never been great with words, though, so she does what she knows how and plunges forward to crash her lips onto his. The familiarity of it all nearly knocks her over, and maybe the only reason it doesn’t is because of Killian’s arm encircling her waist, immediately wrapping around her and pulling her closer. She lets him take control of the kiss, opts instead to run her fingers through the hair that curls upwards at the nape of his neck. Killian’s kisses start desperate and change to slow, languid, ones.

Despite their need for breath, he lingers, leaves little butterfly kisses along her jaw and holds her as though he’s afraid she’ll leave again.

“I’ve missed you so much, love,” he says gruffly, his forehead pressed against the side of her head so his breath fans against her skin as he speaks.

Emma nods, eyes shut. “I missed you, too. I’m sorry.”

He shushes her and brings his lips down to hers again briefly. “It’s okay, Swan. All that matters not anymore.”

And for the first time in a long time, he smiles at her. It begins from one corner of his mouth like a crooked thing, until its worked its way completely through and he’s flashing those dimples at her in full force. Why did she think it was ever a good idea to leave him? To not come back sooner?

“Is this truly happening?” he asks earnestly.

“Yes,” she confirms, even though she's still trying to wrap her head around it.

“When I saw you outside your house,” he shakes his head, “I could have never guessed we would end up like this. Despite all my high hopes.”

“When I saw you, I wondered how I'd get through this week,” she admits, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“And now?”

“Now, I think it'll be easy.”

“Is that so?” He smirks.

He waits for her to nod before kissing her again.

She can't quite get enough of that, is sure she'd stand in the middle of this forest in his arms till her joints gave up on her.

“Speaking of this week,” he murmurs, pulling back a little. His thumb runs along her jaw and she leans into his touch. “I know our circumstances have only just been mended, and we still have much to talk about, but I'd like to ask you something, Swan.” She nods in encouragement, taking in the serious tone of his voice and steeling herself for anything he may want to get off of his chest. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Nolan-Blanchard wedding as my date?”

Emma can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes her. Killian scrunches his brows together and her grin only widens. With her hand at the back of his head, she pulls him towards her. When she kisses him, after twenty one months and five days, it finally feels like coming home.


End file.
